The Last of the Stanfields(4)
On the other side of the city, May slipped her jacket on. She checked that the lockpick was still there, wrapped in tissue in her right-hand pocket, and paid the locksmith for it on her way out. As she stepped out of the building, May was hit by a harsh blast of cold air. The wind made the bare branches of the poplars creak above, sending shivers down her spine. She pulled her collar up around her neck and walked a bit faster.
May boarded a crosstown bus and used the window as a mirror, pulling her hair back into a bun that she secured with bobby pins. Two rows ahead, a man was playing Chet Baker on a little boom box in his lap, his head swaying and oscillating with the slow rhythm of “My Funny Valentine.” Another man seated nearby ruffled his newspaper in retaliation. “It’s just the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard,” the man with the boom box murmured to his irate neighbor.
May found the song more sad than beautiful, though the truth was probably somewhere between the two. She got off the bus six stops later, arriving at the foot of the hill without a moment to spare. Sally-Anne was there waiting for her on the bike, a second helmet in hand. She gestured for May to hop on board. Soon after, the engine roared to life, and the Triumph sped off into the distance.
3
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, Beckenham, outside London
It seemed to be a normal night like any other, but nothing would ever be normal again. Maggie leaned against the doorframe of her living room with an unlit cigarette between her fingers, as though sparking it up would somehow make all the insanity real.
I was sitting at the living-room table, fidgeting with nerves. I had the letter clutched in my hands as though it were some sort of sacred relic or talisman.
“Read it again,” Maggie ordered.
“Read it again, please,” I corrected, for good form.
“Right. Remind me who exactly showed up on whose doorstep in the middle of the night? So, come on, cut the crap . . . please.”
How was it that jobless Maggie could afford a one-bedroom flat, while I could barely find enough rent for a studio, even with a full-time job? I figured she had to have been getting some help from our parents. And with Mum out of the picture, that meant she must have roped Dad into her shenanigans now as well, which was the part that really irked me. One day I’d muster the courage to ask the question point-blank at a family meal . . .
That’s right, I thought to myself. One day I’ll have the guts to stand up to my little sister, and put her in her place once and for all. The thought intermingled with all the others zig-zagging around my head, keeping my mind from the letter that Maggie had ordered me to read for her again.
“Cat got your tongue, Rigby?”
I couldn’t stand it when Maggie butchered my name by leaving out the Eleanor part, and my lovely sister knew this all too well. Aside from our unconditional sisterly love, there has never been anything simple about our relationship. As kids, we would only go as far as yanking each other’s hair, but our clashes grew fiercer the older we got. When the fighting got too intense, Michel would bury his face in his hands, as though our nastiness had unleashed some evil that turned our poor brother into a suffering martyr. An immediate ceasefire would commence, both of us having long since forgotten why we were fighting in the first place. We’d throw our arms around each other in a giddy little circle dance to convince Michel it was only a game from the start.
Maggie wanted to be like me, a calm redhead with an unassuming appearance who never let anything get to her—or at least not as far as she could see. As for me, I always dreamt of being strikingly beautiful like my younger sister, or having her thick-skinned nerve, not to mention the head of curly black hair that would have spared me years of teasing at school. Every exchange between the two of us had the potential to spiral into conflict. But as soon as our parents or anyone else started mucking about with one of us, the other would come running, ready to go to war in defense of her sister.
I sighed and reread the letter aloud for Maggie.
Dear Eleanor,
I hope you don’t mind that I’ve abridged your name, but hyphenated monikers run a bit long for my taste, even when they are as elegant as yours. But I digress. My opinion about your name is not why I’m writing to you today.
I’m sure the sudden death of your mother seemed like a profound injustice. She was meant to grow to a ripe old age and die in her bed, surrounded by children and grandchildren, the family for whom she sacrificed so much. Your mother was a brilliant and remarkable woman, capable of great good . . . and great evil.
Until now, you have only known the good.
This is the natural order of things: all we can ever see of our parents is what they wish to show us, how we in turn choose to see them. It’s easy to forget that they had a whole life before us. The life of which I speak was theirs and theirs only, a life with all of its dreams and fantasies, as well as the tormented hardship of youth . . .
They, too, had to break free of their chains. The question is: How did they do it?
Your mother, for instance, walked away from an extraordinary fortune thirty-six years ago. However, that fortune was not an inheritance. So, then, how did she come by it? Did she find it? Or . . . did she steal it? Why else would she have left it behind? There are so many unanswered questions, should you decide to seek the truth. But I would caution you: you will need to conduct your research skillfully. As you might imagine, a woman as shrewd as your mother would not bury her most intimate secrets somewhere they would be easy to find. As soon as you lay your hands on the proof that will back up my claims—for undoubtedly, your first reaction will be utter disbelief—you will need to find me. But not before the time comes, as I live on the other side of the world. Until then, take some time to think it over. You’ve much to do. Best get started straightaway.